
Class 

Book 



Copyright^ 



COPYRIGHT 11EPOSIT. 




W. H. DAWSON. 




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Sunshine of Hope 



and 



Other Poems 



W. H. DAWSON 



With 
Special Illustrations 



Modern Woodman Press 
Rock Island. III. 






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COPYRIGHT 1910 

— BY — 

W. H. DAWSON 



ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 



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INTRODUCTION 

[N presenting to a much-bored public this little 
^ book, which one of my dearest friends has 
christened "Sunshine of Hope," I desire to state, 
by way of introduction, as well as apology, that 
most of the manuscript was written with no 
intention on my part of ever having it published, 
and the only thing that has prompted me to per- 
mit its publication at this time is the hope that I 
may by so doing assist, in a humble way, in the 
building of the great Modern Woodmen Sana- 
torium for the cure of tubereulosis, at Colorado 
Springs, Colo. 1 trust, however, that in the 
reading of these simple outbursts from the 
soul of the writer you may gather some helpful 
thoughts and feel that you have not only not 
misspent your time, but that you have spent it 
profitably. Whatever the little book may lack 
in meeting your ideal will only reflect the weak- 
ness of the author; therefore, do not condemn, 

but pardon. 

Yours for uplift, 

W. H. Dawson. 






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So My Afflicted Fellow Mortals: 
I affectionately dedicate this edition 
of "Sunshine of Hope. " 



w. H. D. 




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CONTENTS 

A Bluff on Conscience 42 

Actions Speak Louder Than Words .... 9 

A Dream of Mother 83 

A Handshake 10 

Baby 16 

Baby Impressions Preserved 46 

Champeen Speller 72 

Color Effect 12 

Count Your Blessings 25 

Dinner Table D'Hote 86 

Doing Nothing 77 

Don't, My Boy, Feel Blue 28 

Don't You Do It 58 

Don't Worry 11 

Dot Heine Schild ^ 32 

Fishing 66 

Fraternity 56 

God in Nature 40 

God's Sunshine 61 

God Will Count Your Honest Try 49 

Golden Gate Sunset 26 

Good-bye, Old Grip 52 

Grandpa and I 22 

Gran'ma 76 

Guide Thou My Steps 68 

Heaven 93 

Hello Bill 27 

Hog Killin' 33 

Home 13 

Homesick 21 

If We But Knew 55 

I'm Saddest When I Sing 57 



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CONTENTS— Continued 

Inconsistent English Spelling 31 

In Old Killarney 41 

In the Beginning 63 

It Doesn't Pay to Fret 54 

Mental Evolution 14 

Minnehaha — Hiawatha 62 

Morning Sleighride 48 

My God 51 

My Scotch Collie 70 

Napping 30 

New Pledge to Love 43 

Papa's Imitator 8 

Parody on "Psalm of Life" 74 

Resignation 67 

Smelling Contest 20 

Spirit of Discontent 84 

Spooks 88 

Strange, But True 79 

Sunshine of Hope 7 

Thanksgiving 89 

The Awful Blues 47 

The Cigarette 71 

The Frog 50 

The Hem of His Garment 69 

The Land Where All Sweethearts Are True . . 44 

The Little Jap 78 

The Nurse 92 

The Pessimist 60 

There is a Difference 38 

The Tramp 17 

Trust Lessons 82 

Uncle Josh's Opinion on Poetic License ... 90 



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SUNSHINE OF HOPE. 

(M. W. of A. Sanatorium.) 

Between old Cedar Mountain and Amount Rose, 
Where Colorado's Rocky Mountain snows 
Come rippling by with happy, joyous bound, 
And mountain flowers in greatest wealth are found; 
Where brightly shines the sun the whole glad year; 
Where healing zephyrs bring good health — good cheer; 
Tis there the grandest Order in the land, 
Has built its fort and made determined stand 
Against the onslaught of that dreadful foe — 
Tuberculosis. God direct each blow. 

'Tis there God's sunshine brings th' afflicted hope; 
'Tis there God's pure air gives him breathing scope; 
'Tis there new life breaks in upon his soul, 
And he becomes again a man — made whole. 
Divine the mind that first inspired the thought; 
Divine the hand which has this wonder wrought; 
Divinely guided have His servants been, 
Who first the impulse felt, and drank it in; 
Divine the origin of any plan, 
Which makes man feel himself a friend to man. 

So, 'twixt old Cedar Mountain and Mount Rose, 
Is found Love's shrine, upon whose altar glows 
"Sunshine of Hope;" the gift of God and man, 
United in one grand, fraternal plan, 
To give new life to His atflicted sons — 
Our Neighbors — through whose every vein there runs 
As loyal blood as courses through our own; 
But in whose bodies seeds of disease are sown. 
Father, help them — help us — in this, Thy cause, 
To know Thy will and to observe Thy laws. 




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PAPA'S IMITATOR. 

I's mos' as big as bwozzer Mose, 

An' he's mos' big as Pa, 
'Cause I put on my bwozzer's clo'se 

An' nen went to my Ma, 
An' she des hugged me mos' in two, 

An' said I's mos' a man. 
Say, I wish bwozzer'd wear Pa's blue 

Suit, what's new, so's I can 
Wear his'n all 'e time, so's I can be 

A man like my Pa is, 
An' dwive ze team over to see 

Gwamma, an' say "Gee- whiz," 
An' smoke Pa's pipe, an' spit all red 

When I eats plug pobac — 
Git mad an' hit Mose on ze head, 

An' he can't hit me back. 
G— Ooh! I mos' said gee-whiz nen, 

'Cause I fought I was a man. 
I fink I ain't, but will be when- 
Well, des soon as I can. 




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I's mos' as big as bwozzer Mose, 
An' he's mos' big as Pa. 




ACTIONS SPEAK LOUDER THAN 
WORDS. 

'Tis not enough that I should say, 
At early dawn of each new day, 
"No wrong this day will I commit, 
Nor will I with the scornful sit." 
Tis not enough if I should meet 
A widowed one, that I should greet 
Her with condolence, and express 
My sorrow for her great distress. 
'Tis not enough that I should lay 
My hand upon his head and say 
Unto the orphan child, "My boy, 
May all your life be peace and joy." 
'Tis not enough if I should know 
That enemies conspire to throw 
Around your home shame and disgrace: 
That I should simply turn my face 
And say, "I will not stand and see 
A neighbor treated shamefully." 
'Tis not profession's empty boast 
That makes us for the right a host: 
'Tis not the things that we profess 
That help the needy world to bless. 
My duty has not been well done, 
Until with eagerness I run 
To do the will of Him who said, 
"Heal ye the sick and raise the dead." 
Religion pure and undefiled 
Means, help the widow and her child; 
'Tis better to relieve an ill, 
Than just to know our Father's will. 







A HANDSHAKE. 

There's something in the friendly grasp 

Of any right good, honest hand, — 
It may be the peculiar clasp, 

Just what, I can't quite understand; 
But something makes one seem to know 

That "hand to hand" means "heart to heart," 
And one good handshake starts a glow 
• That dies not out soon as we part. 
Then clasp the hand of honest toil, 

And clasp the hand of smothered pain; 
Plant germs of friendship in heart-soil — 

They'll grow, an hundredfold they'll gain. 







DON'T WORRY. 

Don't worry, Bill, for what's the use 
Of worrying? There's no excuse 
For doing that which brings no aid, 
And you know worry never made 
The load you've had to bear seem light, 
Nor helped to make your pathway bright: 
It never helped to ease the pain 
Of aching heart or throbbing brain, 
Nor helped to chase away the blues — 
Don't worry, Bill, for what's the use? 










COLOR EFFECT. 

Have you noticed that some colors 

Really grate upon your nerves, 
Till you feel just like the pitcher 

Looks, when he is twirling curves, 
Trying hard to fan the batter, 

Causing him to pound the air — 
Feeling for the little bullet 

Just to find it was not there? 
Other colors set you frantic, 

Calling back your childhood days, 
When you cut some funny antic, 

Or engaged in childish plays. 
Others set the pumps agoing, 

And the fountain of your tears 
Starts, in spite of you, to flowing 

Like it flowed in other years. 
But the one that really thrills your 

Heart until you want to sing, 
Is the red which you discovered, 

When a boy, in blackbird's wing. 



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HOME. 

The house in which one lives is but a shell 

Of stone, and wood, and clay with paint spread o'er, 
And when sweet stories about home we tell, 

We mean not just the house alone, but more. 
When one has kissed his loved ones a good-bye, 

And for a fortnight travels to and fro, 
Returns unto his home the latch to try, 

And finds the pesky little thing won't go, 
And takes his night key and unlocks the door, 

And finds the house as quiet as a mouse— 
His wife and babies, just the day before 

Had gone — it is not home. It's just a house. 
Tis then one comes to really understand 

The meaning, in its truest sense, of home. 
'Tis then that all the houses in the land, 

Builded earth wide and high'as heaven's dome, 
With floors of gold, and walls of jassamine, 

And ceilings all bedecked with jewels rare, 
Mantels of pearl, and bric-a-brac thrown in, 

Would not be home, with wife and babes not there. 



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MENTAL EVOLUTION. 

Say, Bill, don't you remember, 

When you an' me was small, 
How all the houses looked so big, 

An' all the trees so tall, 
An' we could look an' see jest where 

The sky come to the ground? 
'Twas jest about a mile from us, 

Fer all the way around, 
An' that, to us, was the whole world ; 

We knowed of nothin' more. 
Our knowledge of earth's magnitude 

Was jest about "two by four." 
An' we never knowed^no better 

Till one day when Uncle Ike 
Come drivin' like the mischief, 

Down that old river pike, 
An' stoppin' sudden at our gate, 

He said that Uncle Jim 
Was at his house, most awful sick, 

An' we all went home with him. 
An' you an' me both sot behind, 

In that old wagon-box, 
An' jolted us 'most inside out, 

O'er stumps, an' roots, an' rocks; 
Till Uncle struck that prairie road, 

An' started toward the sun : 
That's where the spreadin'-out process 

In you an' me begun. 
We noticed that the place where earth 

Had always met the sky, 
Was jest as far ahead of us, 

An' we both wondered why. 



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But lookin' back along the path 
That, sometimes rough, I've trod, 

I think I see at every turn 
The guidin' hand of God. 



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An' ever since that day, old boy, 

The earth an' sky's been growin', 
But Oh, the years have gone so fast; 

So short the time for sowin'. 
But lookin' back along the path 

That, sometimes rough, I've trod, 
I think I see at every turn, 

The guidin' hand of God. 
From that small world whose bound'ry was 

Where heaven touched the ground, 
To this great, boundless universe; 

Along the road I've found 
That when the path seemed darkest, 

An' my soul was filled with dread, 
If I reached my hand out heavenward, 

I was always safely led. 
But, thinkin' of that startin' point, 

An' how things have spread out, 
I wonder, when this life is done, 

If we're not jest about 
Ready to start in on one 

That's always goin' to grow, 
An' spread, an' widen, an' expand, 

An' like a river flow, 
Until our knowledge has no bound— 

Our joy is unconfined, 
An' we become like unto God, 

In love, an' soul, an' mind. 





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BABY. 

Hear the baby's joyful cooing, 
As he climbs up by the chair. 

Now look out! There's something doing- 
See him sieze the the teddy bear. 

There! He threw it in the cream-jar— 
Now he pulls it out again. 

Now he plays that it's a choo-car— 
Creeps and drags it for his train. 

Now comes mama and discovers 
Streaks of cream across her rug; 

Baby's face with kisses covers, 
Alternating kiss with hug. 











THE TRAMP. 

Hi there, ol' pal! Ye busy? 

If not, le's have a chat; 
Come sit down here beside me 

An' tell me what ye're at. 
The sun shines warm an' tender — 

Looks like we might have spring, 
But we'll need some heavy showers 

'Fore the grass '11 do a thing. 
Las' night, in that ol' box car, 

I tried to get some sleep, 
But I'd doze an' dream of laughter, 

An' that ol' hillside steep 
Where Jess, an' Jim, an' Bender, 

An' this oi' trampin' wreck — 
When we were boys together — 

Used to race down, meek an' neck. 
I dreamed I was a boy again, 

With Bender, Jim an' Jess, 
An' everything was happenin' 

That happened then, I guess. 
I heard the birds a-singin' 

In the ol', tall sugar trees: 
I heard the squirrels barkin', 

An' I heard the hum of bees : 
I heard young Bender laughin' 

'Till I thought he'd split his throat, 
An' Jess an' Jim was echoin' 

Young Bender's every note; 
While I, half dazed, an' covered 

From head to foot with dirt, 
Was tryin' to regain my feet, 

In my ruined pants an' shirt. 







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I dreamed the whole thing over 

Just as it happened then, 
I haven't had a dream like that 

Since — I can't tell you when. 
Ye see, we'd started racin', 

An' when half way down the hill 
I took a "slide there Kelley," 

An' a tumble fit to kill. 
I'd skinned my shins completely- 
Knocked the nails off half my toes; 
All my front teeth I'd swallowed— 

Raked the bark all off my nose: 
I'd lost the race, too, mind ye — 

That hurt me worst of all— 
I didn't care much for the hurt, 

An' nothin' for the fall; 
But it just seemed from that minute 

That the world had 'gainst me turned, 
An' by everybody in it 

I was slighted, scoffed, an' spurned. 
An' from that scene I started 

Out a-lookin' for a friend; 
From the boys, right there, I parted— 

An' my searchin's had no end. 
But I've always felt that maybe 

I was hasty an' unwise; 
An' I've always longed for mother, 

An' not with tearless eyes. 
I'd give the world to see her, 

An' hear her once more say, 
"Here comes my darling Freddie," 

As she did the other day. 
The other day?— I'm dreaming. 

The other day? It's twenty years 



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Since I left home an' mother, 

An' today I'm filled with fears 
That she has crossed the river, 

An' left me here alone. 
Can I e'er be forgiven? 

Oh, how can I atone 
For the worry that I've caused her? 

The silent flow of tears? 
The anxious hours of longin' — 

Yes, days, an' months, an' years. 
Can her lovin' heart forgive me? 

How I long to hear her say, 
"Your mother loves you, Freddie," 

As she did the other day. 
I'll start straight home this mornin', 

An' I pray God to forgive; 
An' I'll never leave my mother, 

Long as God 'lows lier to live. 





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Some day if your nose 

Should "get on a tear," 

And cease doing business, 

And shut out the air, 

To exclude from its presence 

A strong-smelling pair, 

Would you keep your mouth shut? 

Or, suppose that instead 

Of this rank smelling pair, 

Your nose should find one 

Of them filling the air 

With his loud smelling odor, 

Then would it be fair 

That you keep your mouth shut? 

Now, this loud smelling pair, 

'Tis but fair that I state, 

Are the rank cigarette 

And his no less strong mate — 

Limberger cheese — 

Both smell to hell's gate: 

Would you keep your mouth shut? 

Now, would you sit still 

And let them impose 

Upon the olfactory 

Nerves of your nose, 

While your poor stomach threatened 

Its contents to disclose? 

Would you keep your mouth shut? 




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HOMESICK. 

"You look as though misfortune had 

Swept all your joys away. 
Pray tell me, Jack, has something bad 

Camped on your trail today? 
Has Fanny written you bad news? 

Is baby ill, or what 
The dickins? Have you got the blues? 

Come, tell me on the spot. 
Dad-burn-it, Jack, why don't you smile? 

Your face looks like a pall: 
What are you thinking all the while?" 

"Just homesick, that is all. 
It seems to me a great mistake— 

The worst I can conceive— 
For any married man to make- 
Wife, babes and home' to leave, 
And grip in hand, become a tramp, 

At boss's beck and call. 
Doggoned if I don't skip the camp— 

I'm homesick, that is all." 





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GRANDPA AND I. 

When I was but a baby boy, 
At mother's breast, 

Grandpa and I, 
On his old farm, in Illinois — 
Then called "out west," 

Grandpa and I 
Were friends as close as e'er you knew: 
He'd do whate'er I wished him to; 
We were each to the other true — 

Grandpa and I. 

We were together day and night, 
On that old farm, 

Grandpa and I : 
Whate'er he did for me was right. 
We feared no harm — 

Grandpa and I. 
At night he'd take me in his bed; 
When hungry, I was by him fed: 
Oh, what a happy life we led, 

Grandpa and I. 

When I had learned to run and walk, 
We'd walk about, 

Grandpa and I : 
He'd listen to my childish talk, 
When we were out, 

Grandpa and I : 
With thread for line and pin for hook, 
He'd take me fishing in the brook, 
And seat us in some shady nook, 
Grandpa and I. 



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Grandpa and I 
Were friends as close as e'er you knew: 
He'd do whale'er I wished him to ; 
We were each to the other true- 
Grandpa and I. 



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And when I had grown larger still, 
On old Fill's back, 

Grandpa and I, 
Would ride down to the old grist mill, 
With corn in sack — 

Grandpa and I. 

I used to watch the old millwheel, 

While corn was grinding into meal, 

And when 'twas done, how glad we'd feel, 

Grandpa and I. 

Sometimes he'd take me on his back, 
In forest wild, 

Grandpa and I, 
And put the dog on 'possum's track, 
To please the child- 
Grandpa and I. 
And when we'd hear the old dog bay, 
He'd quicken his tired steps that way, 
And "Sick 'im, Spry!" we both would say- 
Grandpa and I. 

And oftentimes on Thursday night, 
To church we'd go, 

Grandpa and I. 
We went because he thought 'twas right- 
Through rain or snow, 

Grandpa and I. 
Before the prayers were all said, 
I'd have, Oh, such a sleepy head, 
And dream we were at home in bed, 

Grandpa and I. 







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And thus my boyhood days were spent- 
Oh, happy days- 
Grandpa and I. 
I went with him where'er he went— 
Learned his quaint ways, 
Grandpa and I. 
Until death took him from my side- 
Companion, counsellor and guide: 
But some day we'll walk side by side- 
Grandpa and 1. 







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COUNT YOUR BLESSINGS. 

Tis strange but true that common things, 

Like sunshine, rain and snow, 
The happy little bird that sings, 

The fragrant flowers that grow; 
The meals with which we're blessed each day, 

The sweet sleep of the night, 
The friends who ever with us stay, 

The shadows and the light, 
The tender care of mother dear, 

The kiss of loving wife, 
The baby prattle that we hear— 

The best things in our life — 
Are not loved by us half so well 

As things that seem more rare. 
For instance some old. broken bell, 

Or stone picked up someWhere; 
An ancient coin with unknown date, 

An arrow head of stone, 
Or piece of broken armor plate 

Worn by some one unknown. 
Exclusive ownership we crave, 

No matter what the prize — 
True from the cradle to the grave, 

Of foolish and of wise. 
Oh, selfish mortal, don't you know 

'Twould better be, by far, 
If you would train your love to grow 

Among the things that are 
Just common to your daily life? 

You've blessings by the score, 
Then why engage in constant strife 

For more, and more, and more? 






GOLDEN GATE SUNSET. 

Oh, the beauty of a sunset 

Viewed from San Francisco Bay! 
It just seems to make the soul let 

Loose from earth and fly away 
To a land of love and glory — 

To a feast of sweet repose : 
Language cannot tell the story — 

He who sees it, only, knows. 

Oh, the loveliness of sunset, 

Viewed from 'Frisco's Golden Gate! 
It lifts the soul where it can get 

A glimpse of heavenly estate. 
Soul that's weary — heavy-laden, 

Bent beneath the chastening rod, 
When it views a golden sunset, 

Touches hands with Nature's God. 




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HELLO, BILL! 

You drop into a strange hotel, 

Where every face to you seems new; 
1 do not mean that none are old, 

But young or old, they're new to you. 
There seems to be an emptiness 

That naught but friendship's charm can fill- 
But quickly flies your loneliness, 

When some old friend says, "Hello, Bill!" 

You recognize the voice, and look 

Around to find from whence it came : 
You know its owner like a book, 

And call to mind the social game 
That you two played when last you met. 

You played your best and paid the bill, 
But what of that — you'll "beat'him yet." 

Again he calls out, "Hello, Bill!" 

Again you crane your neck to see 

Your dear old friend — you fail again; 
The strangers wink, yet try to be 

Quite civil, just to spare you pain: 
You feel embarrassed, and you guess 

Your friend is hiding from you still; 
But greater yet is your distress, 

When Polly cries out, "Hello, Bill!" 



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DON'T, MY BOY, FEEL BLUE. 

Sometimes one feels as if he'd lost 

His last and dearest friend; 
And that a bare existence costs 

More than one has to spend. 
Should such a feeling ever take 

Possession, boy, of you, 
Strain every nerve its chain to break, 

And don't, my boy, feel blue. 

No matter if the cold should drop 

Below the thirty line; 
Don't fume, and fret, and scold, but stop 

And smile, and say "it's fine." 
Behind each cloud, however dense, 

There is a silver hue; 
Then exercise your common sense, 

And don't, my boy, feel blue. 

Or if beneath the scorching rays 

Of summer's sun you're called 
To walk, rough shod, plain duty's ways, 

Until footsore and galled, 
Go right along with patient tread, 

And whate'er else you do, 
Keep a right heart and level head, 

And don't, my boy, feel blue. 

For every man who does his best, 

According to the light 
That God has placed within his breast, 

Is right — most surely right. 
And when that little silent guide 

Tells you that what you do 
Is right, you may in him confide, 

And don't, my boy, feel blue. 




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The great highway that skyward leads, 

Goes not through vice and crime; 
Its steps are just the little deeds 

Performed, each hour of time. 
Be sure, then, that each act is right, 

And each heartbeat is true; 
Then you will find each day so bright 

'Twill dissipate the blue. 











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NAPPING. 

Keep still, Freddie, just a minute — 
Let me go to sleep — dad-limb-it, 
Can't you stop that hoo-chee hoo-chee? 
There they come ker floochee floochee, 
Seventeen goes into fifty — 
This brown suit is rather nifty; 
See that rat run 'cross the floor? 
There goes fifty thousand more. 
There's a monster — Fido, catch it! 
Here! I'll kill it with my hatchet — 
Now we'll have a hen for dinner; 
I'll bet ten that Jeff's a winner. 
Rain or snow? I shouldn't wonder; 
For I'm sure I heard it thunder. 
Cars run off the track? The dickens! 
Bet they've killed our hen and chickens. 
Stop that noise! Is that you, Freddie? 
"Wake up, daddy, dinner's ready." 





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INCONSISTENT ENGLISH SPELLING 



I hitched my best horse to my sleigh, 
One very bright, crisp winter deigh, 

And struck out for a ride, 

With no girl by my side, 
But concluded that wasn't the weigh. 

I soon met a freind — Kittie Meigh— 
I stopped and to Kittie did seigh, 

"Come, please, have a nice ride, 

Get in here by my side," 
But she turned up her nose and said neigh. 

As I started again on my weigh, 

She said, "Please forgive me, I preigh, 

I mistook you for John, 

For I thought you had gone 
Ice-boating 'way out on the beigh." 

I forgave her, 'tis useless to seigh, 

And she gave me her heart that same deigh, 

And I made her my bride, 

And now when we ride 
We need two more seats on our sleigh. 

Although we are now growing greigh, 
Our hearts feel as young and as geigh 

As they did on that morn 

When our soul love was born, 
Because it came to us to steigh. 



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DOT HEINE SCHILD. 

Did you efer see un ratscal 

Like dot leedle Heine schild? 
Schust ogzackly like his fader, 

Und he sets his moder vild. 
He iss all der time a-teasing 

For someding he couldn't had, 
Und he act so cute und funny 

Dot his moder can't pe mad. 
Ven he teases her for sugar 

He vill vink his oder eye, 
Und if Heine nix can get it, 

Vy he don'd sot down und gry; 
But he dhries do explanation, 

Dot he said it schust for fun; 
Yes, he does, so help me gracious — 

Dot leedle son-of-a-gun. 
Und den schust pefore you know it, 

He vill haf vot for he tease: 
He iss so schust like his fader 

As two leedle plackeyed peas. 
He iss schust so full py mischief, 

He can't schleep ven he's avake. 
He iss all der time a dhinking, 

Vot next mischief he can make. 
Und dough you know he iss naughty 

Und somedimes iss almost pad, 
You schust cannot help but loafe him- 

He's ogzackly like his dad. 



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He iss schust so lull py mischief. 
He can't schleep ven he's avake. 

He iss all der time a dhinking, 
Vot next mischief he can make. 



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HOG KILLIN'. 

'Twas the last week before Christmas, 

In eighteen sixty-nine, 
When Silas Wilcox said, "1 guess 

I'll kill that shoat of mine, 
An' make a little sausage meat, 

An' maybe some head-cheese; 
Kase we're most out o' stuff to eat, 

An' have but little grease 
On hand to grease the griddle with 

When Sally bakes flapjacks— 
So I'll just ask old Conrad Smith 

To come an' fetch his ax, 
An' corncutter an' butcher knife, 

An' iron kettle, too. 
An' Sal, he'd better fetch his wife 

Along to help you through." 
The fire was built, beside a log, 

The wagon-box upset, 
On which to scald an' scrape the hog 

As soon as they could get 
The water het an' gamble stick 

An' gallus chained up tight, 
So they could do the job up quick, 

An' know they'd done it right. 
Well, Conrad came an' lent a hand, 

An' really bossed the work, 
For Silas did not understand 

It all, but was no shirk. 
When 'twas all done but cuttin' up, 

Old Silas looked it o'er, 
An' said, "I'll bet my brindle pup 

Against an apple core, 




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That all my friends for miles around, 

Who haven't much to eat, 
Will come an' borry every pound 

Of my fresh sausage meat." 
"I'll tell you, Si," said Neighbor Con, 

"The best thing you can do, 
Is just to leave it hangin' on 

The gallus all night through, 
So it will freeze a little mite, 

An' that, by jucks, you know, 
Will make it cut a mighty sight 

Nicer than 'twill cut so. 
An' in the mornin' 'fore 'tis light 

I'll come an' git you out 
Of bed, an' we'll cut him up right, 

'Fore anyone's about. 
An' then, tomorry, when they come 

To borry your fresh meat, 
Why you can tell 'em all that some 

Mean, ornery, sneak-thief cheat 
Come in the night an' stole your pig, 

An' they'll feel awful sorry; 
But if you have none, then the jig 

Is up — they cannot borry. 
Of course you'll have to look your part, 

An' speak jest like it's so, 
An' act jest like it breaks your heart — 

Like it's an awful blow — 
Then, don't you see, they'll all go home 

Without a pound o' meat, 
An' maybe next time they won't come 

To you for stuff to eat." 
"By grab," said Si, "That's what I'll do- 

1*11 fool 'em once, I bet, 










An' all the thanks is due to you, 

You mustn't once forget." 
Old Conrad chuckled in his sleeve, 

An' said, "I'll have that shoat— 
No man can make old Si believe 

That I would come an' tote 
The whole durned hog to my own home 

In th' middle of the night, 
But you can bet your neck I'll come, 

An' put it out o' sight." 
Next morning, long before 'twas day, 

Old Silas 'rose an' dressed, 
An' went to put his pork away, 

But found it was no jest — 
The hog was gone— no tracks were there 

To tell which way it went. 
Old Si did everything but swear, 

While trying to give vent 
Unto his wounded feelings, for 

He could not understand 
How anyone near Battledore 

Could deal him such a hand. 
He went inside an' built a fire 

In their old kitchen stove, 
An' all the while his native ire 

For supremacy strove. 
'Till Con walked in— "Good mornin', Si, 

Am I a little late? 
I missed the pig as I came by 

The little orchard gate; 
I s'pose you've got it salted down: 

Gee, but you're awful smart. 
I tried my best to get around, 

Before you'd made a start." 




J 




"Yes, smart is it, you think I am? 

Well, some one else was smarter — 
I've said all words exceptin'— dam, 

An' haven't made a starter. 
Would you believe me, Conrad Smith, 

Some ornery, mean, sneak-thief, 
Come in the night— an' skipped out with 

That whole hog— past belief!" 
"By jucks! You tell it well" said Con, 

"You didn't even blink — 
You had that solemn look upon 

Your face, 'twould make 'em think 
You'd really lost your hog an' half 

Your doggoned family. 
It almost makes me have to laugh, 

To hear you tell it me." 
"Confound it, Con, it ain't no joke!" 

Old Silas then declared, 
"The hog is gone! Why, holy smoke, 

Who, think you, could have dared 
To come right here ferninst my house 

An' take that pig away? 
No sausage now, nor any 'souse' 

For many an' many a day." 
"Well, Silas Wilcox, I'm a cat 

If ever I'd have thought 
That you could tell a tale like that, 

An' make it on the spot." 
Old Si became sorely enraged, 

An' challenged Con to fight, 
An' soon they found themselves engaged 

An' "goin' to it" right. 
Old Silas proved too much for Con, 

An' so, to save his life, 



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Con owned up to the wrong he'd done, 

An' thus ended the strife, 
By bringing back to Neighbor Si 

The shoat just as it was; 
All Con took home was one black eye, 

For which there was just cause. 





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THERE IS A DIFFERENCE. 

There is cause for many stings, 

Don't che know? 
In the way some folks do things, 

Don't che know? 
Some go at it "hammer 'n' tongs," 
Some with curses, some with songs; 
But to each some trait belongs, 

Don't che know? 

Some have soured on everything, 

Don't che know? 
Can't find aught without a sting, 

Don't che know? 
There are others not so sour, 
Who find on every thorn a flower, 
And for good they are a power, 

Don't che know? 

As I've traveled life's pathway, 

Don't che know? 
I've found grumbling doesn't pay, 

Don't che know? 
Of the kicker folks have tired; 
He's no longer much admired, 
From good company he's been "fired, 

Don't che know? 

As I walk along the street, 

Don't che know? 
I look for the good and sweet, 

Don't che know? 
All the sour ones I pass by, 
And the only reason why — 
I couldn't like them if I'd try, 

Don't che know? 



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So, my friend, take my advice, 

Don't che know? 
Don't let me have to tell you twice, 

Don't che know? 
If you would ever happy be, 
Don't be sour with all you see, 
But be joyous, gay and free, 

Don't che know? 








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GOD IN NA TURE. 

" The Groves Were God's First Temples." 

I wish you'd come with me into the grove 

And hear the brown thrush sing his untaught lay. 
I'm sure 'twould fill your very soul with love 

And make you want to kneel right down and pray. 
I wish you'd come and smell the sweet perfume 

With which God's flowers have filled the atmosphere. 
'Twould darkened corners in your soul illume 

And make you feel there's world's of pleasure here. 
I wish you'd come with me down by the lake 

And see there, mirrored in its silvery face, 
The trees, the clouds, the moon, the stars. 'Twould make 

Your soul rejoice in Nature's love and grace. 
I wish you'd come and see the clinging vine 

As round the giant oak its tendrils curl. 
I'm sure you'd say, "Oh take my hand in Thine, 

Dear Father, 'mid this busy maddening whirl, 
And let me ever cling as close to Thee, 

'Mid threatening storms, as well as weather fair, 
As clings the helpless vine unto the tree." 

I wish you'd come and with me worship there. 




I 






IN OLD KILLARNEY. 

I started out one evening, 
Just for a little walk, 
And took in old Killarney on the way; 
It was worth a month's hard labor 
Just to hear the women talk, 
Though I can't remember all I heard them say. 

An automobile whizzed along, 
And soon sped out of sight, 
While Mrs. Murphy gazed in silence dumb; 
But she very soon recovered 
When she yelled with all her might, 
"Well, begorra! that thing do be goin' some!" 

Next at Mulcahy's corner 
Was a Victor phonograph, 
Being played by a street fakir, clothed in rags; 
It ground out "Teddy Roosevelt," 
And "Aaron's Golden Calf," 
And "How Hooligan and Murphy Got Their Jags." 

Mrs. Murphy stood and listened, 
Until the show was through, 
And then she turned to Hennessy and said, 
"That sausage grinder told the truth, 
And that's more 'an some folks do; 
But Oi'd loike to know how it knows — on the dead." 

Just at that moment all eyes turned 
Toward something in the sky, 

And "Sure, help us, Howly Mother," some one cried, 
"There comes Gabriel wid his trumpet, 
And sure we'll have to die." 
'Twas Wilbur Wright out for an evening ride. 





NEW PLEDGE TO LOVE. 

Until each star outshines the sun ; 

Until the thorn becomes a rose; 
Until the rivers backward run; 

Until the little molehill grows 
To be a mountain, towering high 

Above the clouds; until the sands 
Become pure gold, and seas shall dry 

Their waters up; and where now stands 
The great Pikes Peak shall rivers flow; 

And until time shall backward turn, 
And Solomon's wisdom fools shall know, 

Within my breast, for you, shall burn 
That same old love you kindled there 

When but a girl. And then, in turn, 
I know I'll have your love and care. 




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THE LAND WHERE ALL SWEETHEARTS 
ARE TRUE. 



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Near the old frog pond, in the edge of the wood, 

Where the May apples bloom every spring; 
Where the tall sugar trees for long ages have stood; 

Where the frogs help the blackbirds to sing; 
Where the cat-tails grow upward, so thick and so tall 

That one cannot see over nor through; 
Where persimmons are ripe when the hickory nuts fall— 

That's the land where all sweethearts are true. 

The blackbirds are there, of every known kind; 

Every rush holds a bird's nest or two; 
And in every swamp-willow a nest one can find, 

Filled with eggs — green, brown-speckled and blue. 
Where the wild grapevine to the thornapple clings, 

And blackberries are sweetened with dew, 
And the soul feasts on love while the mocking bird sings— 

That's the land where all sweethearts are true. 

In the land where the melons are luscious and sweet, 

And the juice of the wildgrape is fine; 
Where the moonbeam's soft glimmer your lover's eyes meet, 

And her lips are far sweeter than wine; 
Where the wild honeysuckle fills the air with its sweet, 

And the white clover drinks up the dew; 
Where the days chase each other with swift flying feet— 

That's the land where all sweethearts are true. 

Where the brown thrush and cat bird with each other vie, 

In free concerts along the old hedge; 
Where we gathered wild flowers, my sweetheart and I, 

Till we came to the clear water's edge; 




Where we sat on a stone that seemed softer than down, 
And the hours did not creep — they just flew; 

And my arms, like the hands on the clock, flew around 
The sweetheart that's ever been true. 




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BABY IMPRESSIONS PRESERVED. 

When but a tiny tot, in kilt and bib, 

And pretty crocheted coat of white and pink, 
Not quite too tall to utilize the crib— 

Although another claimed the crib, I think— 
I climbed upon my mother's lap one day, 

And, looking straight into her loving eyes, 
I asked, "Where's Dod 'ou talk to when 'ou pray?' 

She kissed my cheek and said, "Up in the skies. 
While we were sitting on the porch that eve, 

I peered into the starry sky to find 
My mother's God. 'Twas easy to believe; 

No doubts had crept into my baby mind. 
And looking far into the cloudless sky 

I found one star much brighter than the rest. 
I said to mother, "I tan see Dod's eye; 

He's looking wight down here at 'ou, I dess." 




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THE AWFUL BLUES. 




Have you ever had a spell of feeling sort o' blue? 

Have you wondered why you felt that way? 
Have you ever said, "Old fellow, what next can you do?" 

Have you said that "nothing comes my way?" 
Have you ever wondered why you'd lost your appetite? 

Why you did not heed the dinner bell? 
And why you felt that nothing was happening quite right? 

Have you told your friends to "go to ?" Well, 

Tis not a pleasant feeling, I'm ready to admit; 

Yet, there is no excuse for feeling blue. 
No one e'er made a penny through a melancholy fit, 

Or changed his lot for better. Then can you? 
Just cast your eyes about you and see your neighbor's load: 

Twill make your own seem lighter right away. 
Forget your little troubles; keep the middle of the road, 

And soon your dismal night will 'turn to day. 



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MORNING SLEIGH RIDE. 

Winter morning, 
Frost adorning 
Every window pane in town. 
Sleigh bells jingling, 
Fingers tingling, 
We go flying up and down 
In our cutter, 
Hearts a-flutter 
As we pass this friend and that; 
Happy greeting 
At each meeting, 
Never stopping for a chat. 
Hurry, scurry, 
Now we hurry, 
Here a nod and there a smile. 
Hi there! Go it! 
Ere we know it 
We have gone more than a mile. 
Sun is shining, 
Shadows lining 
Every lane and every street; 
Sweetheart smiling, 
Hours beguiling, 
Never pleasure half so sweet. 



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GOD WILL COUNT YOUR HONEST TRY. 

If in life's great, onward battle 

You have done your best and lost, 
If amid the din and rattle 

You regarded not the cost, 
If you met your foeman bravely, 

If you dared to do or die, 
God will credit you, most surely, 

For your fearless, honest try. 

Have you sometimes felt discouraged, 

Felt that life had lost its charm, 
And that every effort failed you, 

Bringing to you only harm? 
Look within and ask this question: 

"Have I done my level best?" 
If you answer, without guessing, 

"Yes," then God will do the rest. 

Has this neighbor won more glory? 

That one more of earthly store? 
Though your hair is thin and hoary, 

Are you poorer than before? 
Have you helped, with hands quite willing? 

Have you heard the orphan's cry? 
Given part of your last shilling? 

God will count your honest try. 








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THE FROG. 

Have you ever wished when fretting 

'Bout the chilly air of spring, 
When the days are longer getting 

And the frogs begin to sing, 
Have you ever wished that you could 

Just change places with the frog — 
Let him shoulder all your trouble 

And then leave you on the log, 
In the middle of the mill-pond, 

Nothing in the world to do? 
Have you wished you could change places, 

You be frog and frog be you? 
He don't fret 'bout rainy weather; 

If the sun shines he don't cry; 
He just takes it all together; 

Happy wet and happy dry. 



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MY GOD. 

I worship not a God who only made 

Great things — a God who little things don't see. 
The God whom I adore peers through the shade 

And sees the ant beneath the giant tree. 

My God sees 'neath the robes of royalty 
The vileness, from the world, heart-hidden there. 

He sees beneath the rags of poverty 
The patiently borne burden, and the care. 

If the great God should no attention give 
To little things— unnoticed pass them by — 

Then, great things, only, could presume to live; 
All tiny things would shrivel up and die. 

I should be numbered with the tiny things; 

I could not claim my Father's fostering care — 
This life, which now to Him so fondly clings, 

Could not say "Father." — No, it would not dare. 

No! thanks to Him, the worship of my soul 
Goes out to One who hears the orphan's call; 

To Him who makes the wounded spirit whole; 
To Him who sees the little sparrow fall. 



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GOOD-BYE OLD GRIP. 

The time has come when we must say 

Good-bye. No longer shall we roam 
Together, 'mid the mist and spray 

Of ocean, in the twilight's gloam, 
Nor 'cross the rugged peaks of snow 

On mountain high, while sweltering 'neath 
The scorching sun, on plain below, 

The farmer places the cap-sheaf 
Upon his stack of grain, and hies 

Him homeward where a loving wife 
Greets him with a smile, and tries 

To weave pure love into his life. 
You've heard me, many a time, when I 

Felt blue, say things that I would not 
Have said to one beneath the sky 

But you — nor you— but I forgot. 
"By all the stars above my head," 

You've heard me promise to swear off 
Smoking, and, I have sometimes said, 

"I'll drink no more — " (confound that cough); 
You've heard me promise not to swear 

Again; and I'll give you my hand 
And cross my heart — solemn as prayer — 

I meant it. Well, you understand. 
You know I've slipped time and again. 

I meant all right, but when I've met 
The boys, that's all — the rest is plain — 

I somehow seemed to just forget. 
But you've been true, and not one wink 

From you, Old Grip, has ever led 
My friends or relatives to think 

Wrong thoughts of me — that's on the dead. 



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Though left here in your attic home. 
Your real home is in my heart. 







We've been close friends for many a day; 

My burdens you have helped me bear 
Until my hands grew corns. But say, 

Old Grip, you never seemed to care. 
I've thrown you down upon the floor 

And left you there alone to guard 
My togs — just togs — I had naught more; 

And you have proved a faithful pard. 
And many a night I've soundly slept, 

Leaving within your faithful care 
My only socks, and you have kept 

Them safely — that last holey pair. 
You know, quite well, that night when I 

Was broke— dead broke— had not a sou 
Left to my name; and that was why 

We slept out doors alone, we two. 
I placed you underneath my .head 

And closed my eyes, and thought the prayer 
Tnat mother taught me; then I said, 

Almost aloud, "What do we care?" 
But now, Old Grip, the time has come 

When, though good friends, we're forced to part. 
Though left here in your attic home, 

Your real home is in my heart. 





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IT DOESN'T PA Y TO FRET. 

Reply to a letter from a friend, in which he exhibited a great 
amount of worry over uncontrollable conditions. 




My Dear 

When you go out to take a skate 

Upon the slippery ice, 
Remember, dear old running mate, 

And heed a friend's advice. 
Don't skate too far without a breath; 

Don't try too great a speed; 
Or you may skate yourself to death, 

Of which there is no need. 
Just strike out with an easy stroke; 

Just take a moderate gait; 
Don't go too fast, yet do not poke; 

Don't hurry, neither wait. 
Just try to take things as they are. 

Don't fret about the weather. 
Accept Canadian coin at par, 

And spend it all together. 
You'll live as long— please don't forget- 
By cutting out the worry. 
It's useless, quite, to fume and fret, 

And just as bad to hurry. 




J 





IF WE BUT KNEW. 

If you but knew tomorrow were your last, 
What would you do today? 
What leave undone, 
If but tomorrow's sun 
'Twere thine to see? I say, 
Would you dumfounded be and stand aghast? 

Or would you go with happy heart and free, 
Among your fellow men 
To the last hour? 
And like the fragrant flower, 
Gently close your eyes, and then 
Float out in everlasting peace to be? 

If you but knew tomorrow were your last, 
And you should meet today 
An orphan child, 
On whom no friend e'er smiled, 
What would you do? I say, 
Would you pass him by just as in the past? 

If you but knew tomorrow were your last, 
And to your door today 
Your pastor came, 
Pleading in Jesus' name, 
Would you turn him away, 
And say, "At some convenient day," as in the past? 

If I but knew tomorrow were my last 
Day here on earth to be, 
Just the same things 
I'd do — what duty brings; 
Then sleep would bring to me 
Sweet visions of the future and the past. 



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FRATERNITY. 

Fraternity is that feeling toward mankind— 
Without regard to rank, or wealth, or place — 

Which makes a brother easy quite to find, 
And sees God's image in that brother's face. 

Sometimes the image is so badly scarred; 

Almost beyond the recognition mark; 
Its life by sinfulness so badly marred 

That all the good combined is but a spark. 

Yet the sweet spirit of fraternity, 

Acknowledging the fatherhood of God, 
Fails not His likeness in that soul to see, 



1 



!And lifts it from beneath the chastening rod. 
The man who thinks himself without a friend; £ 

Who bitterest dregs from sorrow's cup has drained ; M 

Who'd gladly welcome death if 'twould but end 

The hell on earth whirh sinfiilnp<;<; hpQ crainpH 



The hell on earth which sinfulness has gained — 

To him fraternity extends its hand 
And says "my fellow trav'ler, look above; 

Let me assist you on your feet to stand. 
You are God's child, and God is love." 




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I'M SADDEST WHEN I SING. 

'Tis not because my soul is filled 

With love, or joy, or praise, 
Or, that with sentiment 'tis thrilled, 

That tuneful song I raise: 
'Tis not that Fortune's hand has dealt 

To me more than my share: 
It does not mean that I've not felt 

The blight of want and care; 
It simply means, I do not want 

My friends to share the sting 
That in my heart is buried, 

So I try to smile and sing. 
I trip about from room to room 

Light as a bird on wing, 
And sing and shout and laugh— but still 

I'm saddest when I sing. 





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DON'T YOU DO IT 

If you're riding on the street cars, 

And the cars are full of folks, 
And your arms are full of bundles, 

And the people full of jokes, 
And you stagger backward, forward, 

Trampling on your neighbor's toes, 
And you feel like saying cuss words, 

As your armful heavier grows, 
Don't you do it. 

If you step into a restaurant, 

Just to get a little lunch, 
And some man sits down beside you, 

Gives your arm an awful punch 
Just as you are elevating 

All the grub your fork will hold, 
Knocks it "seven ways for Sunday" 

And you feel inclined to scold, 
Don't you do it. 

If your wife says, rather curtly, 

"Henry, I must have a hat," 
And your purse is just so empty 

That you don't know where you're 
And you're just about to tell her 

One more great, big, awful lie, 
'Bout the way you lost your money, 

"Honest truth" and "hope to die," 
Don't you do it. 







J 




If you should go home some evening 

After working hard all day, 
And discover that John Henry 

Had, while busy with his play, 
Taken from its case your razor 

"Just to cut a little stick," 
And you yell out in your anger, 

"Here's a boy I've got to lick," 
Don't you do it. 

If you meet the boys at Dooley's 

And they say "let's take a drink," 
And your wife's without a bonnet, 

And John Henry — come to think — 
Used your razor for a jackknife, 

Just because he had no knife, 
And you're just about to "line up," 

Don't you do it — on y6ur life — 
Don't you do it. 



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THE PESSIMIST. 

I cannot clearly understand 

Why laboring people should be taxed 
In this much-boasted "Freedom's land" 

To educate those who have waxed 
Fat from the labor of the poor. 

I do not see — it is not clear — 
Why Uncle Sam should pension all 

The soldiers after many a year 
Of peace, since Abraham Lincoln's call 
Of sixty-one to sixty-four. 

If this great rainfall does not stop, 
Within the next twenty-four hours, 

The farmers won't raise half a crop; 
All that we need is just light showers: 
I'd really like to run the weather. 

Great Scott! This sunshine is a fright, 
The crops can't stand this withering heat, 

If it don't rain by Friday night, 
There won't be half a crop of wheat: 
It may as well go all together. 

Old Parson Jones said Sunday night, 
"God deals with people on the square, 

And that if people live just right — 
Take everything to God in prayer — 
They'll have no reason to complain." 

That may be true, but I can't see 
What good 'twill do for me to tell 

God everything. 'Twixt you and me, 
I think we all shall go to hell, 
And I already feel the pain. 




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O— — o 

GOD'S SUNSHINE. 

If we would only learn that 'tis a sin 
To keep on fretting when the clouds hang low, 

We'd part the blinds and let God's sunshine in, 
And then how quickly would Love's flowers grow. 

And when we feel that nothing is quite right- 
That only thorns are in our pathway strewn— 

If we would part the blinds and let the light 
Of God's dear sunshine put our hearts in tune, 

'Twould quickly change th' unpleasant attitude, 
And from our souls would flow an earnest song 

Of happiness, and love and gratitude. 
God's sunshine quickly changes all the wrong. 

Envy, malice and strife will only grow 
In places where it is as dark as night, 

But in their stead will streams ojf blessings flow 
If we will let God's sunshine give us light. 




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MINNEHAHA— HI A WA THA. 

(H. W. L. Interrogated.) 

When you wrote that pretty story 
Of young Hiawatha's wooing, 
Making love to Minnehaha, 
The old Arrow-maker's daughter, 
Did you catch your inspiration 
From the falling of the waters? 
Did you sit beneath the pine-tree, 
List'ning to the chipmunk's chatter, 
And the warbling of the brownthrush? 
Did you break from blooming dogwood 
Sprigs with fragrant blossoms laden, 
Dip them in the rippling waters, 
Thus uniting dews from heaven 
With the flowers of the forest? 
Did the very God of Nature 
Fill your soul with love and music 
As you drank from Minnehaha 
Inspiration for your story? 
Ah! Methinks I see the stone now; 
Stone on which you sat and listened— 
Listened to the songs of angels 
Echoed by the birds and flowers; 
Echoed by the falling waters; 
Echoed by the wild surroundings; 
By the songs of Indian maidens- 
Dusky maidens of the forest, 
And of little Laughing-water, 
As she sat on fallen pine-tree, 
Laving bare feet in the water, 
Singing of her Hiawatha. 
Little wonder that your musings, 
As you sat in earthly heaven, 
Gave to us that splendid poem — 
Best of all our treasured love songs. 






Did you catch your inspiration 
From the falling of the waters? 





IN THE BEGINNING. 

When God created Adam 

And a woman for his mate, 
And placed them in a garden, 

Without a fence or gate, 
Or walk, or bed of posies, 

Or potato patch, or line, 
By which to get things straight, 

It certainly was fine. 
There was but one man in the world, 

With everything to make, 
Without a square or compass, 

A plumb-bob or a stake, 
Without specifications, 

A pattern or a plan, 
And so he said to mother. Eve, 

"I'll just do the best I can." 
Of all the funny mishaps 

That ever came about, 
The funniest of them all occurred 

When this couple started out. 
Adam tried to be a blacksmith, 

Undertook to shoe a mule; 
Concluded of all men on earth 

He was the biggest fool. 
He next tried to be a farmer, 

And planted scores of seeds, 
But instead of what he planted, 

There grew little else than weeds. 
He tried a patch of sweet corn, 

But 'twas very soon quite plain, 
That instead of raising sweet corn 

He had raised a little Cain. 










Well, then he had to scheme and plan 

With not a little care, 
To increase his family larder, 

And provide another chair, 
And get a few more dishes, 

And readjust his table, 
But he had to readjust again 

As soon as they got Abel. 
And so it took him many a day 

Before he struck his gait, 
He simply had to live and learn, 

And learn to live and wait. 
But if he'd been onto his job, 

As people now would say, 
He might have been the happiest man 

That's seen the light of day. 
He had the loveliest woman 

To be found in all the land, 
No other man she'd ever loved, 

None e'er had sought her hand. 
Her ideal king was Adam; 

Her throne was at his feet, 
Such undivided love as this 

Should make happiness complete. 
Eve tried to make an apron, 

To keep her dress of fig leaves clean, 
She had to sew it all by hand- 
She hadn't a machine. 
And when she had it finished, 

From what the people say, 
'Twould have covered Barnum's Jumbo 

And twenty loads of hay. 
Well, she was very young, you know, 

And one would scarce expect 



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A woman here less than a year 

To make things all connect 
As well as one of riper years, 

Whose mother'ci taught her how 
To bake, and wash, and sweep and sew, 

And milk the Jersey cow, 
And tend the baby, and all the things 

That girls now learn to do; 
For, come to think, she'd never been 

A little girl like you. 
She'd jumped at one promotion, from a 

Rib in Adam's side, 
Taken out while he was hypnotized, 

To a full grown, blushing bride. 
Her babyhood had been cut out, 

Her school days were non est, 
And of the average woman's life 

She'd skipped the very best. 
Her painting lore was nature, 

Her music lore was song, 
Her etiquette simplicity — 

Whether 'twas right or wrong. 



1 



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FISHING. 

I just take a bamboo pole, 

Linen line and Limerick hook, 
Make a sneak for some deep hole 

In the creek, in shady nook. 
Seat myself upon a stone, 

Bait my hook and throw it in, 
Sit there, quietly, alone, 

And wait to see the fun begin. 
First a nibble, then a take, 

Then my float goes out of sight, 
Then a sudden swing I make — 

Got him? Well, you're mighty right. 
Bass, by jingo! Weighs four pounds; 

Won't 1 have a toothsome fry? 
String him on this rope, by zounds! 

Make him safe or I'll know why. 
Once again my hook I bait, 

Once again I cast my line, 
Seat myself and watch and wait. 

Catching bass. Oh, gee! it's fine. 
Soon the float begins to sail, 

Then it makes a sudden dive; 
Holy smoke! I've hooked a whale, 

Just as sure as I'm alive. 
Pull, you sucker! Bet I'll make — 

Stop! You'll surely break the pole. 
Splash! and suddenly I wake, 

Up to neck in swimming hole. 



1 



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RESIGN A TION. 

Swen Kittelson, an honest Swede, 

Who owned a Minnesota farm — 
A man of thrift but not of greed, 

Who never wished his neighbor harm- 
Was never known to fume and fret; 

And when things got into a plight, 
Such as would many a man upset, 

Swen smiled and said, "Das ben ol rait." 
No matter if the rain would fall 

For a whole week, both day and night, 
And weeds shot upward thick and tall, 

Swen smiled and said, "Das ben ol rait." 
Or if the sun shone day by day, 

Until the corn leaves rolled up tight, 
All anyone e'er heard Swen say 

Was, "Val, Ay tank das 'ben ol rait." 
A neighbor one day asked of Swen, 

"How can you see things in that light?" 
Swen answered, "Val, Ay tank dat ven 

God runs dose tings, Hae runs 'em rait. 
And ven Hae vants to make it rain, 

Or if Hae vants de sun to shine, 
Ay tank it's foolish to complain, 

Fer dat's God's business and not mine." 
One day Swen fell from scaffold high: 

The doctor said, "Can't live till night." 
Swen smiled and said, "Christine, don't cry, 

If I must die, das ben ol rait." 





J 




GUIDE THOU MY STEPS. 

I do not ask to have revealed today 

Each step that in tomorrow's pathway lies; 
But 'tis for this, O Lord, 1 humbly pray: 
Guide Thou my steps aright from day to day. 
If Thou wilt only let me feel Thy hand 

At each new step, while traveling toward the skies, 
Firm as a rock, in fiercest storm, I'll stand ; 
Guide Thou my steps aright to Heaven's land. 
If through deep Sorrow's vale I'm called to tread, 

And darkest clouds from me Thy face doth hide, 
Let me remember that my Lord hath said, 
"I'll never leave thee, though all friends have fled." 
If but Thy touch, dear Savior, I may know, 

Then Trouble's sea, how rough, how deep, how wide, 
It matters not, can ne'er me overflow; 
Guide Thou my steps and I aright shall go. 



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THE HEM OF HIS GARMENT. 

While the throng pressed closely upon Him, 

And all were so anxious to see 
The Man who was born in Bethlehem — 

Who'd walked on the blue Galilee — 
The Savior turned quickly about, and 

Inquired of the great surging throng, 
"Who touched me?" "Who hath put forth a hand?" 

For out from me virtue hath gone. 

It was not the hem of His garment 

That made the poor sick woman whole. 
There was nothing whate'er in His raiment 

That could comfort a poor sin-sick soul. 
'Twas the touch of the life within Him; 

'Twas the touch of His love-filled soul; 
'Twas His love that discovered ■her sin; 

'Twas redemption that made her whole. 






f 



MY SCOTCH COLLIE. 

There's just one little dog that's "worth his keep;" 
The rest are only good when they're asleep. 

"On the dead"— "this is no jolly" — 

There's no dog like my Scotch Collie; 
He's a "Yankee-doodle boy" for handling sheep. 

With the children he is wonderfully kind; 
Another such a dog you cannot find; 

He just minds his business, too — 

A thing which some folks never do — 
My Scotch Collie has a very active mind. 

What ! You're sure that my Scotch Collie cannot think? 
Well, you ought to see his knowing little wink 

When I drive home from Tangletown 

And begin to lay my bundles down, 
He just whines, and tries to say, "You've had a drink." 



1 



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When I drive home from Tangletown 
And begin to lay my bundles down. 

He just whines and tries to say, "You've had a drink. 



•j^— — — Hi 

THE CIGARETTE. I 

After a careful study of each habit, fault and fad, 
Just for the simple sake of learning whether 'twas 

good or bad, 
I've come to this conclusion, that I have never yet 
Discovered one so treacherous as the little cigarette. 

Its victim starts out thinking that he'll take a social 

smoke, 
But very soon discovers that his appetite's no joke. 
He finds himself ill-tempered— inclined to scold and 

fret, 
And then he flies, for quick relief, to the little cigarette. 

He's quiet for a minute, but the dream's soon gone, 

and then 
He seeks a panacea in the cigarette again, 
And soon the little demon his victim will not let 
Alone a single minute without a cigarette. 

Tobacco at its very best is but a filthy weed, 

For which no child of God has ever had the slightest 

need. 
So, of all the foolish habits I have in my travels met, 
There's none that's quite as foolish as smoking a 

cigarette. 







CHAMPEEN SPELLER. 

I reckon, come to make a test 

By the old-fashioned rule, 
Matt Bradbury could spell the best 

Of any girl in school; 
An' she could come most awful nigh, 

When she was at her best, 
Beatin' anything, low or high, 

At a reg'lar spellin' test. 
We used to go fer miles around 

Jes' to see who could beat 
A spellin', an' we never found 

Her match in lane or street. 
W'y, bless my soul, if I ain't seen 

That girl stand up an' spell 
For, I should jedge, fully fifteen 

Minutes after the bell 
Had rung the missers down an' out, 

An' never miss a word; 
An' everybody most allowed 

"She's th' best we ever heard." 
An' when it come to words like "tough/ 

An' "phthisic" an' "deceive," 
She didn't have to make no bluff, 

You'd better jes' believe. 
She always knowed which side to put 

Th' bloomin' i's an' e's, 
An' they're what always fooled me, but 

I'm learnin' by degrees. 
One time when all the rest was down, 

Exceptin' Matt an' me, 
The teacher said, "Now we have found 

The two best ones, you see. 



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Now Matt an' Will, both do your best, 

An' it will soon be seen, 
By just the fairest kind of test, 

Who is the reel champeen." 
The first word that she gave to Matt, 

I never shall forget, 
Was nothing more nor less than "gnat; 

An' I can hear her yet, 
As she begun to hesitate 

Between the g an' k, 
An' when she'd start it with the one, 

She'd think, "That ain't the way." 
But finally she spelt it right, 

But it sounded wrong to me, 
An' I jumped in with all my might 

With k instead of g. 
The contest thus was settled, 

'Mid the wildest of applause, 
An' I felt somewhat nettled, 

To think I'd lost, because 
I didn't have the sense to wait 

For teacher to say "Next:" 
Then I felt silly an' confused— 

Dumfounded an' perplexed. 
But my experience that night 

At No. 2 spellin' school, 
Has often helped to put me right; 

An' I've made it a rule 
To always look before I jump, 

An' know the way is clear. 
An' I've concluded after all, 

The lesson wasn't dear. 





J 





PARODY ON PSALM OF LIFE. 

Tell me not, ye chronic grumblers, 

Life is but a mere machine, 
Used to help out licensed plumbers, 

And things are not what they seem. 

Life is real: Life is earnest; 

And the man who burns soft coal 
Every day to dust returnest. 

Winter uses up his roll. 

Not enjoyment 'tis to borrow 

Cash to pay the baker's bill, 
For we know that each tomorrow 

Finds less money in the till. 

Art is long, and time is fleeting, 
And our hearts grow faint and weak, 

While our grocer's bills we're beating, 
And we scarcely dare to speak. 

In the world's broad field of battle, 

In this busy, rushing life, 
We are like dumb driven cattle, 

Victims of the butcher's knife. 

"Trust you? No!" Look e'er so pleasant- 
Though he knows we're but half fed; 

"Can not trust you just at present," 
The hard-hearted butcher said. 

Lives of some men now remind us, 

We can dine on half a dime, 
And departing leave behind us 

Debts to pay some olher time. 




J 




Small debts that, perhaps, some other 
Time, when luck has turned our way, 

We can pay, and make another 
One, too large to try to pay. 

Then let us be up and "doing" 

Every fellow that we meet, 
Still achieving, still pursuing 

Some rich guy whom we can beat. 




! 




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GRAN' MA. 

Who is it always takes the part 

Of little Freddie Green, 
And says, "God bless his little heart," 

When sister says "he's mean"? 
Who pats the little toddler's head, 

And calls him "little man," 
And spreads more butter on his bread? 

Is it his sister Ann? 
Tis gran'ma. 

Who is it wipes the little tears 

From Freddie's weeping eyes, 
And whispers love words in his ears 

Whenever Freddie cries? 
Who "knows it hurts most awful bad" 

When Freddie stubs his toe? 
And when his little heart is sad 

To whom does Freddie go? 
'Tis gran'ma. 

Who trots the little barefoot tot 

Upon her tired knee, 
And gives him "des one ozzer trot," 

And then "des one, two, free"? 
Who sings the darling boy to sleep? 

Who tucks him in his cot, 
And prays "Dear Lord, our baby keep"? 

Is 't Ann? Well, if 'tis not, 
Tis gran'ma. 



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Who gives him "des one ozzer trot,' 
And then "des one, two, free " ? 



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DOING NOTHING. 

The hardest job I've ever tried, 
In summer, winter, spring or fall, 

Whether alone or by the side 
Of helpers— matters not at all — 
Is doing nothing. 

Just think of having not a thing 
On earth to busy hand or brain. 

I know not of a sharper sting, 
Nor one 'twould give me keener pain 
Than doing nothing. 

Just eat and sleep and mope around; 

No good deed done, no kind word said, 
No darkened corner sought or found, 

Where sunshine might with ease be shed- 
Just doing nothing. 

Kind Fate, spare me from such a lot. 

I'd sooner, far, be numbered with 
The silent sleepers in some spot 

Where naught is known of kin or kith, 
Than doing nothing. 








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THE LITTLE JAP. 

Written at the Beginning of the Jap-Russian War. 

The little Jap is just the chap 

To tan a Russian Bear skin. 
He gets a tip and up he'll slip; 

Bear finds himself a trap in. 

You may depend, Jap has a friend 

In Wun Lung Johnee Chinee. 
Bear hears a sound — he looks around — 

John's gonee, can no findee. 

I guess— don't you?— when Bear gets through, 
He'll wonder what has happened; 

But bear in mind — he'll surely find 
It's happened at the Jap end. 

But Bear will be more wise, you see, 
Next time he feels like scrapping; 

He'll look about with gravest doubt, 
Before he starts out Japping. 




«L* ^* k5 



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STRANGE, BUT TRUE. 

Jack, isn't this a queer old world? 

And aren't the people funny? 
From unknown space somewhere they're hurled, 

And begin to grab for money 
Soon as they on terra firma light 

And get a solid foothold. 
My word! It certainly is a fright 

The way some do, so I'm told. 
But, Jack, you've never seemed to care 

A rap for dimes or dollars. 
You've always been content to wear 

Plain clothes, and sometimes collars 
That were not just the latest style; 

Sometimes you've gone bare-handed 
When it was cold, and still you'd smile; 

And, really, to be candid * 
With you, I have sometimes wondered 

Why you always seemed so willing, 
When you'd meet someone who'd blundered, 

To divide your bottom shilling. 
Yes, I remember, very well, 

When little barefoot Susie 
Came straight to you her tale to tell 

'Bout bootblack and the newsie, 
Who had "not had a bite to eat 

Since yesterday at dinner." 
You fed all three— My ! What a treat— 

A treat that was a winner. 
You've "divied" with the hobo, too, 

When he looked cold and seedy; 
It seemed to be enough for you 

To know that he was needy. 






i 



You've never turned a deafened ear 

To one weighed down with sorrow; 
You've always dried the orphan's tear; 

You've loaned to those who'd borrow; 
You've never been a selfish man; 

You've always thought of others — 
If everyone would try that plan, 

They'd have a million brothers. 
Well, "What's the dif?" When Gabriel blows 

He'll open up the wicket 
And ask— not "How about your clothes?" 

Or, "Have you got a ticket?" 
But he will grasp your hand and say, 

"It's you I'm pleased to meet, sir," 
And introduce you, by the way, 

To his old friend, Saint Peter. 
Well, Peter will not care to know 

'Bout Taft or Billy Bryan, 
Or which you voted for below, 

Or if you've been a tryin' 
To get more stock in Standard Oil, 

Or if you've threshed your barley. 
Oh, no, though Peter knows it all 

He will not stand and parley; 
He'll simply turn to your account 

And, glancing o'er its pages, 
He'll quickly know the whole amount — 

(He's had that job for ages). 
And while you're shedding of your togs, 

Preparing for hot weather, 
He'll turn to you and say, "Hold on, 

Just go in all together," 
And, opening up the pearly gates, 

To heaven he'll admit you. 






Good-bye, old man, we've long been mates, 

But here I'll have to quit you. 
Tis not because I could not gain 

Admittance, Jack, with you, 
But just because I must remain 

Awhile. I've work to do. 






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TRUST LESSONS. 



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Just a tiny, little bird flew down upon the ground, 

And with seeming satisfaction swallowed what he found; 

Then flew back to the branches of a nearby apple tree, 

Seemingly as happy as a little bird could be. 

Not a trace of worry could I see upon his face, 

Though I knew that he knew not either the time or place: 

When or where he'd gather crumbs for his next little meal. 

Then I thought I'd give the world if I could only feel 

Such simple and abiding trust in my own Father's care, 

As little birds are teaching to men everywhere. 

Just a tiny rabbit from his fur-lined burrow crept— 

Where through the hours of sunshine he had securely slept — 

To nibble leaves from clover, and his thirst to slake, 

Then back into his burrow another nap to take. 

Not a sign of worry could be seen in act or look: 

I know that bunny did not learn that trust from any book. 

Then why should I not have that trust in my own Father's 

care, 
That little rabbits teach to doubting people everywhere? 
A father placed his little child upon an open wall, 
And said, "Now jump, my little man— papa won't let you fall : 
Jump into papa's arms, my boy — I'll surely catch you, dear." 
The child leaped to his father's arms, without a sign of fear. 
Why is it when my Father calls to me, I hesitate, 
And doubt, and wait, and falter, and talk of unkind fate, 
And pray to be excused from all unpleasant work? 
Such conduct in a child of mine would brand him as a shirk. 
I cannot understand why I don't trust my Father's care, 
With that sweet trust that's being taught by children every- 
where. 



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Just a tiny rabbit from his fur-lined burrow crept- 



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A DREAM OF MOTHER. 

How frail my words! How weak- 
How light as chaff they fly; 
How like the infant's prate; 
How meaningless they seem 
When mother's name I speak. 
Tis only when I dream 
That she is here, that I 
Can find words adequate 
Her virtues to express. 
Oh, how I love to dream 
That from that world on high, 
Where loved ones congregate, 
She comes to earth to bless 
Her child, and tell to him 
The story of the cross. 
I love to dream that she 
Is present in my room. 
Death seems to me less grim; 
Earth's pleasures more like dross; 
When her dear face I see, 
Less dreadful seems the tomb. 





J 




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SPIRIT OF DISCONTENT. 

(Clear Down the Line.) 

A man of wealth grew tired of life 

And said, "I'd give up everything 
If I could only end this strife 

And be a president or king." 
A poor man saw this man of wealth 

Go driving by in splendid style. 
He said, "I'd sacrifice my health 

If I could just be him awhile." 
A negro met this man of toil, 

And envious of his frame robust, 
Complained because the gumbo soil 

In himself was not lighter dust. 
A monkey saw the colored man, 

And heard his talk— it raised his spunk. 
He said, "I'd rather be a man 

Ten days, than twenty years a monk." 
A little pig gazed at monk's face, 

Then looking toward the sausage can, 
He said, "I'd like to take monk's place; 

He'll never be chewed up by man." 
A rat crept from a near-by hole, 

And listening to the piggie's squeal, 
Said, "Pig is sure a thankless soul — 

He's fed while I am forced to steal." 
A little mouse crept slyly by, 

And noticing rat's discontent, 
Said, "Great big baby, he, to cry — 

With his size I'd not care a cent." 
A caterpillar saw the mouse 

Go scampering by at breakneck speed, 
To hide within its little house, 

And said, "It makes my poor heart bleed 



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To see the ease with which you run, 

Until I think of some poor worm, 
For which there is no life to come. 

I soon shall fly instead of squirm." 
After the mousie thought it o'er, 

He said, "'Tis better, after all, 
To scamper 'cross the attic floor, 

Than be a worm and have to crawl." 
The rat heard what the mousie said, 

And seemed to know just what it meant, 
For from the hole he poked his head, 

And said, "Henceforth I'll be content." 
The pig looked up the line, then down, 

And looking down he felt ashamed 
To think that he had ever found 

Fault with his lot — much worse, complained. 
The monkey scampered through the boughs 

Of a well-loaded coc'nut tree, 
And made a half a dozen vows 

That he'd be thankful he was he. 
And then the negro fell in line, 

And said, "I'm glad that I'm a man: 
You never more shall hear me whine 

About my color — black or tan." 
The man of wealth saw his mistake, 

And prayed forgiveness for his wrongs, 
And said, "I'll henceforth try to make 

Good use of what to me belongs." 
The king looked on and in despair 

Said, "I would give my crown to be 
As free from sorrow and from care, 

As all these creatures seem to be." 



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DINNER TABLE D'HOTE. 

Hungry, Bill? Well, I'd just remark, 

I never felt such emptiness; 
I could just strip a log of bark, 

And eat the log without distress. 

Well, here we go. What's on the card? 

I'll have blue points, and pickles, too. 
Now that is just a starter, pard; 

My palate tickles through and through. 

Now, waiter, bring a nice black bass, 
In butter drawn, and cooked well-done; 

And lobster— No, I'll let that pass, 
I mentioned that only in fun. 

Next comes the entrees: Let me see, 
I'll have fried chicken, country style — 

Yes, that is just what mine shall be — 
And then some roast lamb after 'while. 

And vegetables: I'll take — well, 
Baked sweet potatoes, Lima beans, 

Asparagus and — that corn's swell — 
And flageolets and mustard greens. 

For salad — well, I think I'd like 
Some chicken salad mayonnaise; 

I'd have fish salad if 'twere pike, 
But chicken's all right, if you please. 

Next, cold meats; and I don't care much 

What kind I have if 'tis but cold; 
Pig's feet and sauerkraut sounds like Dutch, 

But what of that? It's good as gold. 



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Deserts: Now that's so near the end, 
If I expect to get filled up 

I must upon desert depend; 
So bring black coffee — a large cup, 

And apple — no, gooseberry pie, 
And grapes, and some limberger cheese, 

And— yes, I'll eat it if I die- 
English plum pudding, if you please. 

No, thank you, I don't care for more; 

I'm dieting. I might say here 
That Dr. Pinchtop told me four 

Long weeks ago I need not fear 

Those cutting pains I've had so long, 

If I but follow his advice; 
He says that there is nothing wrong 

With heart or lungs — yes, said it twice. 

Said, "All you need now, Mr. Jones, 
Is just to choose your food with care; 

The reason you are skin and bones 
Is, too much on your bill of fare. 

"just try to guard your appetite, 

And eat as little as you can, 
And soon you'll find yourself all right; 

I'll bring you out again a man." 

So, knowing that my health depends 
Upon my fasting for awhile, 

Though dining with my closest friends, 
I think of health rather than style. 







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SPOOKS. 

{The Only Kind Ever Known.) 

Say, Jim, le's run over to Brown's back yard, 

An' hide behind their ol' shed, over there, 
An' holler "hoo-hoo, Sam," "hi there, ol' pard," 

An' make Sam wonder where on earth we are. 
An' when he comes a peekin' roun' the shed, 

We'll hide under that ol' pile o' hay, 
An' make Sam think it's spooks riz from the dead, 

A callin' him to come out doors an' play. 
An' when he runs into the house to tell 

His ma "there's spooks out in the sheds," 
We'll holler "hoo-hoo" loud as we can yell, 

An' then crouch down an' cover up our heads. 
"Oh, no," said Jim, " 'twould be like Sam to go 

An' get a pitchfork an' some big, long knives, 
An' maybe their ol' meat ax an' a hoe, 

'N'en I wouldn't give a penny for our lives." 



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We'll hide under that ol' pile o' hay 

An' make Sam think it's spooks riz from the dead. 



^— ^—^ — t; 

\ THANKSGIVING. I 

Another year has passed, and with it many a life 

Has closed its record upon earth's great active stage, 
And registered with the immortal throng, where strife 

For place, and wealth, and honor has no book, no page. 
We are still here, with homes and friends, and all we need 

To make life's pathway pleasant and enjoyable. 
Then let us all, with thankful hearts, give earnest heed 

To Him whose hand hath led us thus to joys so full. 







UNCLE JOSH'S OPINION ON POETIC 
LICENSE. 

I can't see no use in poets havin' licenses to write, 
In case they mean to tell the truth or keep it well in 

sight 
But maybe, though, it ain't supposed that folks like 

me should know: 
Anyhow, they've got 'em whether it's right or no. 
Perhaps that's jest the reason why Miss Wilcox dares 

to say 
So many things that jest don't seem could happen that 

a'way. 
She says, "Unto each mortal, whoever comes to earth, 
God gives a great long ladder jest at the time of birth; 
And that a feller has to climb from that day till he dies, 
And if he climbs the proper gait, 'twill land him in the 

skies." 
Now, them may not be jest her words but they are 

mighty near: 
But the how about that ladder never seemed to me 

quite clear. 
But then she's got a license and she can write off-hand, 
A lot of stuff that sounds quite nice that folks can't 

understand. 
You see, with poets' license one can say that black is 

white, 
Providin' that he says it jest to make it jingle right; 
And he can say to lose a friend 's a blessin' in disguise, 
That, good or bad, he's gone to wear a crown up in 

the skies. 
Why, ding it all! it makes me sore, the stuff some 

poets write; 
If I was only license clerk, I'd revoke 'em left and 

right. 







J 




Why not make poets tell the truth and call a hoe a hoe? 
And not twist words to make 'em mean what is so 

isn't so. 
Some poets try to make us think that hell ain't hell at all, 
And that the world is none the worse because of 

Adam's fall; 
And some go on the theory and undertake to tell 
That if a man has toothache it hurts just as bad as hell. 
One poet says that "Conscience makes cowards of 

us all." 
By Jucks, if he thinks I'm afeard, I'd like to have him 

call 
And give me jest one chance to prove that I'm no 

coward yet; 
And if he's got his purse along, I'll post a little bet 
That I can prove — and make it plain — that what he 

writ ain't so, 
And that his poets' license is the thing that makes him 

blow. 
I'm givin' notice here and now that I'm a candidate 
For the office of the license clerk, be it county, town 

or state, 
And if elected, I propose to raise the license price; 
And if that plan don't stop this thing, I'll make 'em pay 

it twice. 





J 




THE NURSE. 

There are some people in the land 
Who really do not understand 
That an angel nurse is but the hand 
Of God extended. 

They seem to think to be a nurse 
Is naught less than a blight or curse 
Upon her life — that nothing worse 
Could be invented. 

They do not seem to think or know 
That sickness, suffering and woe 
Do not stand half as great a show 
Where the good nurse is. 

They forget that the Savior said, 
"Go heal the sick and raise the dead," 
And, "Feed the hungry people bread." 
(Their god their purse is.) 

"Clothe ye the naked, help the poor, 
Assist the needy within thy door; 
Thus lay up treasures ever more 
In highest heaven." 

The nurse — sweet angel from above, 
Whose very soul is naught but love — 
Her every act doth serve to prove 
She is God-given. 



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HE A VEN. 

The sweetest thoughts of heaven, that come to me, 

Are of the vast unfolding of the mind; 
Ever expanding, until eternity 

Shall, to itself, a limitation find. 
Then I shall find in my redeemed soul, 

A likeness of the ever living God; 
And, looking outward o'er Time's endless scroll, 

Discern the pathway by the Savior trod. 
The reuniting there with kindred souls; 

Th' wakening to a real sense of Him; 
Rejoicing as the soul itself unfolds; 

Compared with that, this earthly light, how dim! 





J 



AUG 19 1910 



One copy del. to Cat. Div. 



aug 20 im 



